Bobby Blake at Rockledge School: or, Winning the Medal of Honor. Warner Frank A.

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СКАЧАТЬ he'll wiggle then till the sun goes down. Just like a snake," declared Bobby, repeating a boyish superstition held infallible by the boys of Clinton.

      "Oh, dear!" sighed Fred, at last pulling the wet shirt off. "I'm aching for laughing. What a mess that line's in."

      "And how about your own!" demanded Bobby, on a broad grin again, and pointing into the branches of the tree where Fred had flung his shiner.

      "We're a pair of fine fishermen – I don't think!" admitted Fred, in some disgust.

      He got off the remainder of his wet clothing, and slipped on his trunks.

      "You might as well do the same, Bobby," he advised, while he laid his clothing over the low bushes back from the bank of the creek, where the sun could get at them nicely. "Look at your shirt. All slime from that old eel."

      "I wish he'd keep still a minute," said Bobby, with some impatience. "What were eels ever made for?"

      "They're good eating, some folks think. But I'd just as lief eat snakes."

      "Some savages eat snakes," said Bobby, trying to keep one foot on the tail-end of the eel, and unwinding the fishline.

      But the next moment the squirmy creature wound itself up in the line again into a harder knot than before.

      "Looks just like the worm he swallowed," chuckled Fred. "There! he's got the hook out of his mouth. Fling him back, Bobby!"

      Bobby did so, pitching eel and line into the water. There was a flop or two and the wriggling fish got free. Then Bobby hauled in his line and began to rebait the hook.

      "I guess I'll try fishing somewhere else," he said. "I won't try here. If there ever was a trout under that stump, he's scared away."

      "There never was a trout where an old eel made his nest," scoffed Fred, struggling with his own line.

      "That eel didn't belong here," announced Bobby, with confidence. "What do you bet I don't catch a trout to-day?"

      "Never mind. I've landed one fish," chuckled Fred.

      "Fish! what's it doing roosting in that tree, then!" demanded Bobby, giggling. "It's a bird."

      Fred managed to untangle his own line, and in doing so he shook the shiner out of the branches.

      "Catch it!" he shouted. "There it goes!"

      "Plop!" the fish went right into the pool, and with a wiggle of its tail disappeared.

      "We're a couple of healthy fishermen," scoffed Bobby. "We land them, and then lose them."

      "Le's go farther down stream. We've made so much noise here that we couldn't catch anything but deaf fish – that's sure."

      Bobby was quite agreed to this, and Fred in his bathing trunks, leaving his wet clothing to dry on the bushes, led the way along the creek bank. Bobby followed with the can of worms.

      They found another quiet place and this time both took pains to cast their lines where no overhanging branches would interfere with the tips of their poles. The creek was well stocked with sunfish, yellow perch, shiners, and small brook trout. Once – "in a dog's age," Fred's Uncle Jim said – somebody landed a big trout out of one of the deeper holes in the stream.

      The boys fished for an hour, and both landed perch and shiners.

      "If we get enough of them we can have a fish supper," declared Fred.

      "At home?"

      "Sure. We can clean them – "

      "Who'll cook them? Our Meena won't," declared Bobby, with confidence.

      "And I don't suppose our girl will, either. Besides, we'd have to catch a bushel to give the crowd at our house a taste, even," for there were five young Martins at Fred's house, besides himself, ranging from the baby who could just toddle around, to Fred's fourteen year old sister, Mary. There was another girl older than Fred, who was the oldest boy.

      "Just wish Michael Mulcahey would light a fire in his stove and pan them for us," said Bobby, wistfully. "'Member, he did once!"

      "Yes. But we haven't caught enough yet."

      "Hush!" murmured Bobby. "I got another bite."

      In a minute he had landed a nice, big sunfish. He cut a birch twig then, with a hook on the end of it, and strung his three fish. Fred did the same for his two, and the fish were let down into the cool water, and were thus kept alive.

      They moved farther down the creek after a bit, and tried another pool. The strings of fish grew steadily. It looked, really, as though they would have enough for supper – and it takes a right good number of such little fish to make a meal for two hungry boys.

      Not that they wanted food again so soon. During the afternoon they ate the rest of the lunch and some apples to stave off actual hunger!

      "I bet you get sunburned again," said Bobby.

      "No, I won't. I'm in the shade all the time."

      "The wind will burn as well as the sun."

      "But I'm not in and out of the water all the time, like I was that day at Sanders' Pond. Just the same," added Fred, "I'm going into the creek now. There's a dandy place for fish just across there."

      "There's some stepping stones below. I'll go over with you," declared Bobby, winding up his line.

      Fred was not afraid of splashing himself. He ran across the stones laid in the bed of the creek. Bobby came more cautiously, but he did not see the wide grin on Fred's face as he stood on the far side and watched his chum.

      Bobby stepped on the rock in the middle of the stream. Just as it bore his full weight, and he had his right foot in the air, stepping to the next dry-topped rock, the one under him rolled!

      The red-haired boy had felt that stone "joggle" when he came across but he had leaped lightly from it. Bobby was caught unaware.

      He yelled, and tried to jump, but the stepping stone, under which the action of the water had excavated the sand, turned clear over. "Splash!" went Bobby into the water.

      He stood upright, but he was in a pool over his knees, and the agitated water splashed higher. His knickerbockers were as wet as Fred's clothes had been when he waded out.

      "Oh, oh, oh!" shouted Fred, writhing on the grass. "Aren't you clumsy? Now you'll have to take off your clothes to dry, Bobby."

      "You might have told a fellow that rock was loose," grumbled Bobby.

      "And you might have told me that I was stepping off into the old creek when I was jerking at my line," retorted Fred. "I got it worse than you did."

      Bobby removed his trousers and wrung them out. Then he put them on again. "They'll dry as good on me, as off," he said. "Now, come on. Let's go up along and see if we can't get some more fish."

      They whipped the creek for half a mile up stream, and were successful beyond their hopes. Both boys had a nice string of pan-fish when they came to the deep swimming hole, which was only a few yards below the corner of Plunkit's farm Sphere the apple tree stood.

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